an endless string of bad luck. Printers jamming, coffeemakers sputtering, milk and creamer clotted and sour even before its sell-by date. A scented candle shattered on the fifth floor, spilling hot wax across important paperwork and almost catching the drapes on fire, plaster sagged, stray cats wandered in, yowling, and didn’t leave until the aroma of their urine soaked the entire building. The boiler sputtered and creaked, moaning, the sound of its displeasure felt through the wooden floors. Fingers jammed in doors, toasters overheating, electrical outlets sparking when the cords were jiggled, four fender-benders out front and the doormen decrying the paucity of tips. Toes catching on carpets, stairs missed and neck-breaking tumbles barely averted, papers scattered and microwaves either not heating anything or scorch-burning it to the container, two mini-fridges inexplicably ceasing to work…
All through this, the rocking continued, the creature gaining inches across the roof. Lunchtime came and went, and it became obvious what the thing was aiming for—a pool of shadow in the lee of an HVAC hood, lengthening as the sun tipped past its zenith.
The ill-luck below crested, and one or two of the artists in the studios—their windows facing blank brick walls, their floors humped and buckled as the building settled into gracious decay—saw tiny darts of light in their peripheral vision, gone as soon as they turned their heads. One thought he was having hallucinations, and began to furiously paint the two canvases that would make him world-famous before he slid into a hole of madness and alcohol. The other, her recording equipment suddenly functioning again, began to play cascades of melody on her electric piano, and for the rest of her life never played from sheet music again. Her compositions were said to cause visions, and she retreated from the world years later to a drafty farmhouse in Maine.
Rocking, still. Tipping on the horn-thick edge of the bony shell on its back, sliding into blessed coolness for a moment as the shadow swallowed it, back the other way, teetering on the opposite edge, a sharp whistling cry as it rocked back into the shadow, hesitated on the brink…
… and toppled over, landing with a flat chiming sound in the shade.
Stillness. Below, paint splashed, music floated down an empty hall, printers suddenly rebooted, the two mini-fridges just as inexplicably started working again. A hush descended on the Savoigh Limited, and as the sun-scarred creature huddled under its shell in its dark almost-hole, a rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
The spring storms were on their way.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks must go to Mark Sanders, whose dream provided the impetus for Gallow’s world, and to Mel Sanders for telling me I could certainly write it. Additional thanks must go to Miriam Kriss for encouraging me, to Devi Pillai for putting up with me, and to Lindsey Hall for not strangling me when I change things at the very last moment.
Lastly, as always, thank you, dear Reader. Come a little closer, just around this corner, and let me tell you a story…
extras
meet the author
Photo credit: Daron Gildrow
LILITH SAINTCROW was born in New Mexico, bounced around the world as an Air Force brat, and fell in love with writing when she was ten years old. She currently lives in Vancouver, Washington.
introducing
If you enjoyed
TRAILER PARK FAE
look out for the next book in the
Gallow and Ragged series
by Lilith Saintcrow
A Very Thin Shield
Dusk turned to dark well before true nightfall as the storm’s wing passed over a small trailer park on Guayahoya Avenue. The sun, as it sank, peered underneath the clouds, turning the west to a furnace of gold and blood. The last streaks and flashes of crimson and yellow faded to indigo dusk. Quiet fell, broken only by cars grinding to a halt and quick bursts of supper-scent puffing out before trailer doors slammed. Evening thickened, swirling under trees whose wet branches now had hard little green nubs, spring bursting out all at once.
A soft breeze rattled droplets from bough and bush. Night tiptoed over the city, thief instead of grand dame.
The cat’s hiss brought Robin into wakefulness with a terrified jolt, a taste of bitter almonds on her tongue and every nerve taut-prickling. The cat, her formal black and white disarranged by the puffing of her fur, hissed again, and Robin was off the bed in a flash, instinct driving her toward the closet before she halted, her skirt swinging.
No. Be canny, Ragged.
They were not close, not yet. She shut her eyes, listening, taut as a bard’s lutestring, the mortal